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Created January 6, 2020
Community? Engagements? Arts? Well, for starters this is a class taught at Transylvania University in Lexington, KY by professors Kremena Todorova and Kurt Gohde. The goal of this class is to form a relationship with the community by engaging in artistic projects with the community. The outcome of this will manifest itself in many ways, some recognizable and others not so much.
CETA 2020: Our first 2 emojis (of hundreds)
Created January 6, 2020
Individual Tasks
Collect addresses, make & write thank-you cards, design pronoun buttons--Anna Davis
Blog Manager--Paige Wessling
Recorder/archivist for This I Believe essays--Sarah Metcalfe
Social Media--Lydia Baggett & Garrett LeVan
Photographic Inventory (3 people)--Yousef Alsdudi, Sarah Bennett, & Faith Boles
Space, raw material, & tool inventory manager AND order enforcer--Emily Neat
Quality Control & Class Ethicist--Alex Toney
Software Design Team (3 people)--Shelby Barker, Emily Cecil, & Abby Pearson
Fabrication Team (3 people)--Brooklyn Greer, Will Hemingway, & Marissa Price
Finishing Team (4 people)--Nannie Baze, Emon Daneshmand, Ally Frederick, & Madison Phillips
Additional photographic documentation--Kremena and Kurt
Working with production design at Kre8Now Makerspace--Kurt and Kremena
Publicity for the class--Kremena and Kurt
Securing materials needed--Kurt and Kremena
I wake up with no motivation or reasoning to get out of bed. This shit is getting really irritating to the point where I’m like is it even worth it? “Why are you always tired?” “Why are you always complaining?” “Wait until you start working…you’ve never worked a day in your life so why are you tired” “I’ve been working for 22 years, that why I am tired”. That’s all I hear from people! I wake up and bust my ass off at one of the hardest schools in the state of Kentucky. That’s why I’m tired! When I have endless hours of homework...and stay up until 4am for 4 years...that’s why I’m tired! I have no set routine. I have no genuine appetite. I just want to graduate. “Don’t rush it.”, “You don't want these bills.” People are always telling me what I want...Hell let me tell you want I want and that is once again, to GRADUATE! When given homework, I just look at it until the day before it has to be due…especially since I have a three day weekend every week, procrastination is at it utmost highest right now. I mean, I worked my ass off for three years so can you cut me some slack? I mean, I know I still have work to do but I mean...I put in my time, can I go on parole now! But, I guess I have to serve my time. I just don’t know how much I have left in me. I have literally, less than four months until I graduate and I get more and more eager to walk across that stage. However, on that day, I am going to be so emotional that my parents might re-enroll me into college just to shut me up. Hell, that’s if I do this “glorious beneficial school work”. I just believe in senioritis.
ReplyDeleteI love the image of your parents re-enrolling you in college on the day you graduate :).
DeleteYou are a great student--I believe you will make it to graduation, easy peasy!
You’ve probably been there. You’re sitting on the toilet in a community bathroom, going number two, when you see a pair of tennis shoes enter the adjacent stall. You immediately begin to pray, “Please just pee, please just pee, please just--” and then they turn and plop down on the toilet. Now you’re in a poop war.
ReplyDeleteI think when they coined the term “war of attrition” they had this scenario in mind. Each person is sitting on the toilet and neither is pooping. It’s a battle of resolve. Who will be the first to give in and let the other hear them poop? You might let out a small cough or sniffle to let the other person know that, “Hey, I was here first.” They might “accidentally” play a video before they turn down the volume on their phone. What they’re saying is, “If it bothers you so much, why don’t you just get up and leave?” That’s when you might pull out your own phone and start scrolling through Instagram. With each tap you’re saying, “Not. A. Chance.”
Maybe five or ten minutes have passed at this point (it depends on your enemy). You’ve really got to go to class, but there’s no way in hell that you’re giving up the possibility of a private and peaceful poop. All you can do is sit there and wait. It’s their turn to decide and the suspense is killing you. Maybe you should be the one to pull out some toilet paper and slide it under the adjacent stall, declaring your surrender. But then you here a little splash. That’s your victory bell sounding. You’ve won the poop war.
But this is only one of many battles. Sometimes the enemy ambushes you and you’re surrounded on both sides. Sometimes every other stall is filled and you have to enter the buffer zone and assert yourself. Each enemy is new and sometimes you might lose; the same tactics don’t work on everyone.
Now some of you might think that what I’m talking about is ridiculous. You’re probably thinking, “Everybody poops. Get over yourself already.” Everybody does poop, but does that mean we should forgo the sanctity of the bathroom? A lot of people pray in church, but does that mean they just stand up during the preacher’s sermon and start spilling out their guts? The answer is no. The bathroom is a sacred space where we need to be alone and bring our needs before the toilet. We don’t want anyone to know what’s going on inside. We need the bathroom for catharsis. It’s the only way we can go out in society and function like normal human beings. A private poop maintains social order. That’s why I believe in fighting for a private poop.
Zach, your meditation on poop cracks me up every time I read it!
DeleteI believe in a smile. This slight movement, where the lightening of cheeks, mouth, and eyes all working together to bring some emotion that warms every inch of my body. I am still to this day unsure of why it makes my life so much better but I am very confident in knowing it does. Smiling can give you a contagious feeling.I mean like really, have you ever had anyone smile at you continuously and been able to consistently stay somber? I really hope you haven't. I think that a smile can alter a moment, a experience, or possibly shift someone's life. Imagine this: you walk down some street that you are way too privileged to be walking down and someone with an angry face is walking the opposite direction towards you, what do you do? Do you grab your keys or your pepper spray? Do you have 911 on speed dial? Do you think to yourself “dammit I knew I should not be on this street”? Or do you forget all of those negative thought and just freaking smile at them as they walk by maybe say hello? I say why not smile at what you are unsure of, and just maybe they will smile back.
ReplyDeleteThe feeling of receiving a smile is almost just as great as giving a smile. The warm and accepting feeling just for that split second lets your soul know that even if it is minuscule. Being smiled at is like feeling a warm summer breeze, it passes through you as quickly and it came. In such an unfortunate world that we live, making another person smile is incredible. It brings live, light, and hope that humans as a species can maybe treat one another better than we do now.
Sharing a smile can bring you that feeling when your favorite oldie come on the radio and you can sing every last word. Smiles are what the world should be experiencing day and night. I believe in people looking past thier own bull shit and just love life for what it is. Bird shits on your head? Great, laugh and smile, because at least the bird is still alive and global warming hasn’t brought it to extinction. There are so many gosh dang reasons to smile, I don’t need to try and list them all, because everyone can smile for different reasons. But, I do believe there is one reason everyone should smile, and that should be to love. I believe that everyone deserves to smile and be smiled at. I mean isn't that what life is about? Honestly, I have no damn idea, but I do know that life is a lot easier to deal with if i’m smiling. Eden Ahbez said it best, “the greatest thing you’ll ever learn. Is to just love and be loved in return.” So why not show love through smiling?
The plywood that once covered the door now lay beside it, beneath weeks of snow. Stepping through, we found ourselves at the back of a stage, looking out into an auditorium with 2 balconies, 2 unbroken windows, and a single seat—a discarded LazyBoy recliner. My son and I climbed stairs covered in broken tiles that once held the rain out when this Gary, Indiana cathedral still had a roof.
ReplyDeleteFrozen fog wrapped around the rusting shell of a ship we found at the end of a muddy road in Petersburg, Kentucky. My son pulled a silk choker from beneath a season of leaves slippery on the deck before lowering himself through a porthole of this 186-foot yacht that appeared in Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach” video 2 years before docking permanently in the mud at the bottom of a stream off the Ohio River.
A Liberty, New York police car passed twice by the windows of the once immaculate but now graffiti covered natatorium returning slowly to nature as moss and small plants push their way through the cracked grout of the tile floor. Standing atop the diving platform, my son froze for fear of being caught. It took us 20 minutes to sneak back to our car from the ruins of Grossinger’s Resort.
I asked him to go to a Friday movie with me, something we have done for years. My son said no. He had seen all the movies he wanted to see—with his girlfriend.
I believe in abandonment.
This is an ode to people who apologize to empty rooms
ReplyDeletePeople who say sorry to the coffee table after stumping a toe
Who apologize for interrupting themselves?
This is for people who end statements in question marks
Who do not drop their words like
Stinging acid
Their words are
Lilting petals
Petals from the um flower
On The like plant
Grown in the sorry garden
That questions it's place on Mother Earth
This is a poem to validate your garden
You do not have to be masculine to be valid
And why is assertiveness associated with masculinity anyway?
Lilting petals
Inspire change just as much as
Stinging acid
And you should learn to love your sorrys
And to hug your ums
Because you are the kind of people who can insult someone, and make them think it's a complement.
I believe in your voice.
When I run time doesn’t run out. I would prefer time run out when running because the closer to zero the better your time, the faster you are. I moved to Lexington and attended a certain university for many reasons, but one of the important ones was to run cross-country and track. My senior year was supposed to be bittersweet because time would run out and I would no longer be eligible to run for the NCAA, but it would have been sweet for four years running at the collegiate level. That sadness was planned and expected, so it would not hurt as bad. What actually happened my senior year was an unplanned, unexpected bitter moment. I still cannot seem to grasp the sweet. To understand we go back to my junior year of track. I was running fast, close to my life goal of subbing 19 in the 5k. I had the best coach who helped me overcome an iron deficiency, made me addicted to the 10 mile runs, and helped me run personal bests. It was May term and the night before this bitter event I had run the 10k at conference, running a pretty solid race for as sick as I was and coming off an injury. My coach and I were excited for the next season and how much better I could get. After that night running conference, it was the afternoon and I had finally come home from practicum to see a bunch of messages on my phone telling me my coach resigned. You could imagine I did not believe them because of what happened last night and all the plans we made, but it was true. Without any warning my coach was taken from me because the university wanted to try something different with the coaching staff. The decision seemed to be without consideration of who would be hurt in the process. I believe time runs out.
ReplyDeleteWhat a poignant reflection/memory...
DeleteI got my first tattoo on December 14, 2012. It was a Friday. I asked my friend to tell me a story when the pain became hard to bear. I no longer remember the tale he spun, only that my asking has become part of the story I tell of my first tattoo. My story goes something like this: “It took no time and it didn’t hurt at all.” (“But you asked me to tell you a story to distract you from the pain,” he always points out.) We had spent the entire day at the tattoo shop, so we didn’t know what had happened. When Pat arrived, she brought chocolates and a heart full of sadness. The Sandy Hook shooting happened that morning. 20 elementary school children had died. They, too, became part of my tattoo story.
ReplyDeleteThe story of my tattoo is made of many parts: my need to hear my friend talking so I could forget the needles making holes in my skin; the news about twenty kids shot to death 2 weeks before Christmas; the making of a poem whose words took new life on 253 bodies; my chosen words from the poem—“deep roots”—connecting me to Kentucky, my new home. I found out about others’ stories, too, linked to mine through permanent ink: of the father who lost one of his twin boys a month after their birth, of the woman who loves to dance and finds strength in her curves.
Five years later, I learn women who survive sexual violence are advised by prosecuting attorneys to cover their tattoos before their court hearing. If the women have bruises or scars to be photographed as evidence, existing tattoos must be left out of pictures. I am told for most judges tattoos are like over-the-knee red suede boots: signaling poor judgment, the thing that gets women in trouble.
Five years after my first tattoo, I believe in the stories tattoos tell. Some of them are narratives of survival.
Readers Note: There is a lot of subtext in scripted moments. There are also about 4 or 5 motivations between my grandmother and myself. I would say if you want to get the full picture of both of our thought processes, then you should probably read it a few times.
ReplyDeleteGoing to college is terribly expensive, and most people walk away with debt that they can eventually (in theory) pay back. But that is if you can get a loan to begin with! If not, then things get a little tricky, and even trickier when it comes to paying it all back. Especially when someone just...spots you the $.
My grandmother isn’t rich by any means, but she is beyond supportive of me. And so when I asked if she could help me out, she did so without hesitation, which in a weird way, made it so much worse.
I went back up to visit her in Chicago after a really long and frustrating semester. Nothing was going right. My depression had fully bloomed and just about every professor seemed to have a personal mission to make me feel like they were wasting my time in their class. So I was, again, very close to just calling it quits and taking a literal dump on the steps of old Morrison and saying “Fuck this place, officially!”
But when I got to Chicago, and was standing in the middle of a fairly empty bus station, I couldn’t spot her. And then I walked around and noticed that this frail twig I had taken a few laps around was my grandmother. And I walked up to her and said “Hey, grandma?”
And she looked up at me, physically present but mentally absent and said “Oh, hi.”
-You look so....
-Good? I’ve lost weight you know? I’m not so fat anymore.
-Are you dieting?
-No. I’ve just had a cold. I’ve lost about 40 pounds.
I had gone up there anyway because my grandmother was particularly insistent that I stop bye. And so when we made it back to her home she slid me a check and said here you go. And I felt so betrayed. Everything just sort of clicked. Was this a going away gift. And it stung again, that same feeling she had given me something the first time. Because we both knew that at this point, there was no way I would ever be able to return the favor. You can’t pay back someone dead.
-I’m really glad you invited me.
-I’m really glad you could make it.
I believe truly great selfless gifts are a dangerous thing, because you become indebted to the person who gave it to you. And all your capable of giving back is:
-Your company. It means a lot to me.
Gradnmas can be awesome. And, no, we can never repay them. And I am selfishly and communally glad you didn't leave Transy.
Delete(Disclaimer: I'm not sure if this fits the idea of something I "believe" in exactly, but it's a story I wanted to share so hopefully it's okay.)
ReplyDeleteFull to the brim with insecurities and self doubt.
My voice shakes.
The words I’ve rehearsed a hundred times awkwardly stumble over one another.
Why does this always happen?
I’m not nervous, really.
I don’t feel like those in front of me are going to judge me—hell, they’re only half listening.
I know there aren’t high expectations.
Why does this always happen?
My tachycardia-ridden heart somehow beats even faster.
My hands vibrate.
My syllables twist to make sounds never-before heard from a human mouth.
Why does this always happen?
I know the topic.
I know what I want to say.
I know I’m intelligent.
Why does this always happen?
In my head, my words are woven together beautifully.
In my ears, I sound like an uneducated fool.
In his comments, my professor writes: “why are your essays so wonderfully well-written and insightful yet you don’t speak up during class discussion?”
Why does this always happen?
“Can you speak a little louder?”
“I didn’t catch that, you were talking too fast.”
“Hang on, can you please repeat that?”
Why does this always happen?
I feel eyes burn holes into my face as I pause for way too long.
I feel tears of frustration start to rise as the girl inside doesn’t understand why the girl outside just can’t get the damn words right.
I feel like I shouldn’t even be here.
Why does this always happen?
What’s the point in even being if I can’t express what’s going on inside my head?
What’s the point of all the preparation when it’s going to be a train wreck anyway?
What’s the point of these embarrassing experiences if I can’t grow from them?
This always happens.
I wish that this girl could believe in herself more.
You rock. And you say tons of great things in class when we are working on making scenes!
DeleteTotally agree with Joey! I am so glad we are in class together!
DeleteI was small when my sister moved to Mobile, Alabama for college. Small and sad and obsessed with USPS. I would send care packages to her at her address on Dauphin Lane. Far away in her dorm room, she would open a random assortment of items: my stuffed animals, mix CDs full of our favorite Dixie Chicks hits, sometimes I’d even spring for candy from my own allowance. She would always write me back. Once, she even sent me a care package at home. I would stand by the door and peek out every day, waiting on our long-haired sunglass-wearing mailman to deliver bills and ads and love from my sister.
ReplyDeleteWhen I moved into Forrer Hall in the fall of 2014, I fell into my age-old habit of checking my little mailbox among rows of other little mailboxes. Every. Single. Day. Some days, it was filled with love from my sister.
When I moved to Oregon last semester, I received yet another new mailbox to check obsessively, this one a little wooden cubby with Rachel scrawled across it in rushed handwriting. Some days, THAT mailbox was filled with love from my sister. Some days it was filled with love from a boy back home. Some days, it was filled with deliciously absurd gossip from my roommate, who received my responses in her mailbox among the rows of other little mailboxes.
At the start of this semester, I was surprised to find out that I had not yet been assigned a mailbox; and a sense of great unease washed over me. This was followed by a series of sassy emails to Kevin Fisher, a man who had never seen my long-haired mailman, never met my sister, never felt the love of my bearded boy, and never gossiped with my roommate. How could he possibly understand?
Last week, I got my new mailbox number. I go out of my way to walk through Forrer Hall and check little mailbox 850. Every. Single. Day. Already, it has contained the love of my parents (who sent me a Kroger gift card because they’re convinced that I’m broker than I really am).
I know the ins and outs of campus mail. I know that if I send a letter to someone in Lexington, it can arrive at their doorstep in under 24 hours. I know that if you put mail in the Outgoing Mail slot at Back Desk, it will always take longer to go out than if you deliver it straight to the dungeon-like mailroom in the basement of Old Mo.
Every time I send or receive a handwritten letter, my heart fills with joy. Each page screams YOU ARE WORTH THE TIME IT TOOK ME TO SIT DOWN AND WRITE THIS. Each stamp whispers I suppose you’re worth this 50 cent investment.
I believe in the United States Postal Service.
I really liked your piece! I really want to work on it in class!
DeleteTHIS I BELIEVE #3
ReplyDeleteIt’s a bright summer day. I walk down sunny streets, sunlight basking cheeks and the smiles that form dimples within them. I scream you scream we all scream, because it’s summer at it’s really hot. Ice cream purchases at shady van windows, drip drip dripping bomb pops white blue and red colors trickle onto the grainy black pavement. Spongebobs eyes become gum chewed by sugar stained molars with flavor lasting only a few minutes. Pokemon cards traded on culdesac, scooters whipping around and hitting ankles. We were young then. Jumping in pools not thinking about the potential of sunburns, and blistered shoulders. Bikes riden through tunnels, and a whole lotta “Can so and so come over, or can so and so come out to play”. Lunchables compared in classrooms, to see who got the basic ones, or the maxed out ones….young but already constructing hierarchies...it was all fun then. It’s fun now too, but life consists of more brown bags and bottles, and tears under hot showers. Red roses, becoming noticed more for their thorns than their petals. Fingers pricked to drop blood on already stained carpet floors. Where is mom to put on the bandaid?
I believe in overdramatic corny poetic storytelling.
Of course you would!
DeleteAnd you are good at it :)
I awoke to the blaring sound of his possibly fifth alarm he has set for every morning. I pressed my head further into the pillow as if it was to release me from the unpleasant sounds that robbed me of more sleep. I pulled the blankets up to my neck and felt the bed dip as he rolled over to turn it off. When he rolled back from terminating the suspect of my sleep robbery he grabbed me by my waist and pulled me closer to him. This process was one to be repeated many times within the same morning as I am quite a heavy sleeper and although he is an early riser he always stays in bed later when I am there. Even though I am one to treasure my sleep this little dance we do provides me great satisfaction, being physically close to him just makes me happy.
ReplyDeleteWhen he finally becomes fully awake he gets out of bed to go make a pot of coffee, he takes a shower and comes back to find me in the same position as he had left me. He grabs his covers from the bottom of the mattress and continues to pull them until they are no longer even touching the bed. I fight it, oh I desperately fight it, but he and I both know he is much stronger than I and I don’t get to keep them for long. So I whine and complain but accept the situation as I know I need to get up.
He often jokes about how jealous he is at how quickly and easily it is for me to sleep, as he has struggled with insomnia, but that has clearly never been a problem of mine. We have a relationship I never knew I needed until I had it, one where we are both so comfortable around each other, we have made communication such a big part of the relationship, but we are both so consumed with love for one other.
We don’t go on dates much but we don’t mind, I am happy just being around him, whether he’s cooking me dinner or we are going to the grocery store together. His roommate jokes about how we are like mom and pop or grandma and grandpa because it’s only been a few months but its felt so much longer. I can’t believe just a little over a year ago I was leaving something so unhealthy it broke me, but here I am feeling like a blossom among a field. You never believe it when someone tells you things will get better, but here I am consumed in safety, trust, happiness, and love; I don’t look at the past anymore, not when my present is so much better and healthier than I ever thought it to be.
There is so much intimacy, trust, and happiness woven into this reflection, your relationship really comes to life as one of safety and love.
DeleteI still want to be a princess when I grow up.
ReplyDeleteI’m not ashamed to say this, and while nobody has told me to my face that it’s childish, I’ve heard on multiple occasions that I should want to be a queen, not a princess. Because a queen gets a king, not just a knight or a prince.
But I disagree.
I want to be a princess, not because I want to be rescued, or need a man to take care of me, and absolutely not because of Disney.
I want to be a princess because of who a princess is. A princess is beautiful, graceful, kind, generous, has the means and ability to help others, and is loved by her people.
I don’t prescribe to the Disney version of princesses that makes them helpless objects of beauty and wealth. I prescribe to the Brother’s Grimm version of fairy tales- where the lead female solves her own problems, kicks butt, and doesn’t need a man for any of it.
In Grimm’s Cinderella, there is no fairy god mother. It’s her hard work, pure heart, and continued devotion to her deceased biological mother that grants her a gown for the ball. She has no carriage, but walks there and back herself. She doesn’t get home faster than her step family by magic, but though planning and cunning, and is able to outwit her family members into believing she never left.
I don’t want to be a queen, who is powerless beside her king, a figure head who’s title implies age. I believe in being a princess.
Yooo, when I was younger I would get mad when people would call me a queen and say that instead I was a king "because a queen's power is derived solely from who she's connected to while a king's power is his own." Which I think is extremely insightful but my mother thought it meant I wanted to be a boy 😒
Delete